From Their Games In The Sand Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Crepuscule will be happening again:
Here it is: oops, it has gone, and the parks are emptied
And the homes become brightly lit as the traffic
Is parked and we are home
With our lovers or our soon to be party guests, and the televisions
Are on,
And they are gossiping in the middle of the sea:
And we cook for ourselves, or they cook for us: and the airplanes
Leap:
Oh joy: they leap up and up- they cascade, but Alma will not
Tell me that she loves me,
And my tears float like watchtowers of balloons over the
Coquina fortifications which become doused with trumpets and
Petty kings and barbeques with
Gazebos and homeopathic primates and silent unrequited gifts
For Alma every evening after crepuscule has come
And her one or two children have come home again
Their toes curling, exhausted and finishing with be playful,
And culled to us and her tawny bosom,
Like ships returning to port all famished and weary but happy
From their games in the sand.